


The Measure Of A Man

by elixile



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-19
Updated: 2011-03-19
Packaged: 2017-10-17 03:01:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/172218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elixile/pseuds/elixile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first meeting of two highly complex men - involving coffee, chocobo-chomping and conversation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Measure Of A Man

**Author's Note:**

> This is just one of the _many_ variations I have on Veld and Reeve's beginnings linking to a wider thought process of Veld/Reeve/Tseng interactions.
> 
> I settled on Midgar having already having been built here. This is not necessarily dismissive of Reeve's input, though he would have only been a wee bairn!
> 
> Reeve is only 20 at this point and, well, it shows. Veld, the Turks, Midgar and Shinra all will shape him into the man we know and love (at least I do) but in this fic he is recollecting a time when he was still somewhat unscathed.

I remember most first encounters, having a decent enough memory for faces, names and events. One first encounter however remains in mind sharper than most. Or rather two, but I shall leave the second to a later time, for it would not make sense without knowing of the first.

I had been accepted as an engineer at the Shinra Corporation little under a month. My mother and father had been proud when I had said I was moving to Midgar from Junon where I had been studying. They told me to focus on my work and not get distracted, yet I still missed them. Things weren't challenging me at that point in time so I spent a lot of my days feeling somewhat homesick, even though it had already been four years since I had left.

In a lot of ways I feel like I failed them as a son considering how quickly I shrugged off that mentality, as the days passed into months and they into years before I once more thought of them. But there was work to be done then, and still is now, and there has never been logic in sentimentality for sentimentality sake.

Already within the month I had been positioned as head engineer and in charge of maintenance for even-numbered reactors 2 through 8, likely on the strength of my reinforced plate design I did as a dissertation piece. A boon of knowing the original design as I did. Though at that point I did not know that my theories, designed to build upon the architectural and engineering infrastructure that Midgar already had in place, would be put to practical application.

And neither did I know during my academic career of the inequality that existed between two worlds; below and above plate.

There is a notable word here: propaganda – and Shinra was adept in its use.

I had been out into Midgar to post a letter, wanting to experience her - the city - yet not venturing past the railway station. The discrepancies you find in a polarised socio-economic climate had become part of my reality, and they were certainly part of the reason I was not venturing further that evening. Of course, I felt remorse that such a dichotomy of living could exist, guilt that I had a hand in ensuring that difference remained, yet I was not about to get myself killed going into such territory without preparation. If I died, unequivocally I would not be able to change it.

At least if I lived, I stood a fighting chance.

Walking back into the false warm buzz of the reception area I paused and took a moment to look up at the high ceiling above. Wouldn't it be great, I thought, if I had x-ray vision like in the movies; if I could just see right now through the various floors to witness what everybody was actually doing behind their access panels and name plates. Too see the machinations behind the success.

(Even now, if I ever have spare moments, albeit rare, I do enjoy a good superhero flick. At the time however I was particularly fond of detective movies, gangster movies and film noir. But then sharp suits, cigars, double-crossing, spies, interrogations, terrorism, counter-terrorism and blonde femme fatales were just another story back then.)

I digress. I was there, looking up at the ceiling when I heard a light laugh and looked down to see a black-haired girl. She was even younger than I, practically a child, dressed smartly in a perfectly tailored dark suit and had a smile as sharp as knives, "You will get a reputation of being a dreamer if you do that too often." She laughed in my direction before walking off before I could reply. She was soon joined on the far side of the foyeur by an older man. He was also in a pristine, dark suit yet managed to look rather gruff as opposed to smart. They exchanged words and the other male glanced back in my direction. I gave out a smile but neglected to wave. This, I have come to realise, was probably a good thing.

Parched and looking forward to an evening trying to improve the efficiency of reactors two and four with next to no additional resource for man power, I decided that a strong black coffee was very much in order. Not close to the stuffy staff room which had been my utmost pleasure of acquainting myself with each time I wanted a coffee that tasted of mud, I instead veered over to the cafeteria. Just for the novelty more than anything.

So it was with steaming beverage in one hand and a chocobo 'wing' in the other I set off to make my back to the section of the Tower set aside for Urban Development flunkeys; the engineers mess with our kit and lockers, said staff room further back which had a few sofas, more lockers and to the sides a shower room. At the back was the office for the Head. Luckily she let me share her space, for there really was no other suitable area in which to work on paperwork; particularly into the evening as was becoming habitual.

In stark comparison to the contemplative mood I was in, food and drink in hand and gearing up for another slightly tedious night amongst budget calculations, the following encounter went by in a flurry of words and gestures that followed a strange pattern. If I had known the Turks back then, things might have gone differently but as it was:

The choco-wing found its way to the floor with a rather unsavoury plop as somebody was suddenly in front of me and I had to jolt to stop myself from driving straight into them. I did not even have time to grimace at that fact before a fierce, wet heat attacked my chest.

A plastic cup joined the choco-wing upon the floor; most of its contents now burning through my clothes to the skin beneath.

"Argh- Hot! Hot, hot, Hot!"

"Not the usual words I hear when someone's just spilled hot coffee onto themselves."

"Would you prefer I swore?! Because I could quite happily accom--"

It was a little rash to be raising my voice, not knowing who in Leviathan's name was standing before me, so I snapped my mouth against saying anything more.

"Not at all. It is a measure of a man to see how he reacts under duress."

"Well, thank you for your... concern" I gritted out in something approaching a low growl, "But it's not the first-"

"Not the first time you've spilled hot, black coffee onto yourself?" I looked up then into hard, hazel eyes which held none of the apparent mocking humour I thought I had heard in that sentence.

I had been busy unbuttoning and peeling my shirt from my torso in order to alleviate the damage, the sugar content in the drink threatened to stick the cloth to the reddening and stinging skin underneath. Glancing away I quickly fastened my also wet but thicker jacket over the top and tried not to wince when my nails grazed the scored skin.

"It is not the first... or worst thing I've had spilled over me"

"Oh?"

"Steam vents, mostly."

"An engineer then."

"...Yes."

My private nature kicked in as I narrowed a look at this man. He had taken out a handkerchief and begun very calmly and lightly dabbing at the front of his pristine jacket.

"Ah. I didn't mean to splash you..."

"No. I daresay you did not."

The sentence was delivered with a hint of threat running underneath. Precisely, he carried on dabbing away at his lapel as if I did not really exist, and he was not having this conversation. I swore under my breath. Just who had I managed to piss off?

"Of course I didn't! I’m sorry, I never saw you step in front of me. I'm not usually so--"

"Absent-minded."

"--I was going to say unobservant-"

"A dreamer."

"That girl was just joking!"

Now there was recognition from him. He stepped forwards and looked upwards, direct and unflinching into my eyes, "Unchallenged."

His look was as fierce and penetrating as the heat of that spilled coffee, yet showed me absolutely nothing. All I could think of was who in Gaia was this man? He wasn't asking questions, just stating things: provocative, and unending. Like a damned interrogation...

Oh yes, and it seems irritation combined with hot coffee scolds can be source to an uncharacteristic looseness of tongue, "Are you always this nosy?"

Then there was a thundering silence, as the heat in my cheeks suddenly decided it wished to wage war against the heat at my chest. I don't regret my words easily but in that instance, as in the few times since, I sincerely wished I could just shove the remark back down my throat. That, or a nice cast of confuse would have been handy.

Then I heard a slow rumble start up. Blinking, I realised that the other man was chuckling quietly, "Nosy. That's real quaint, kid. Real quaint." Yet the sound of amusement and the muttering ceased so quickly, it was as if it had never occurred.

And I was left trying to figure out if he really had just called me 'kid'.

He answered flatly, "To reiterate, the measure of a man."

"For what reason?"

"Part of the job."

Now it was my turn to pry.

I had heard of the Turks, but in truth it had been all very hush-hush. All that was officially said was that they helped to protect the company, like SOLDIER defended it. What they actually did was a subject of mere speculation. I listened to rumour, for it is always useful to keep an ear to the ground, but some of it seemed so ridiculous. Besides, I always liked to back up suspicion or gossip with proof.

"You're a Turk?"

The old man didn't answer, just looked at me with a small smile on his face. Unless, I was imagining it. I have a habit of anthropomorphizing human emotion onto other things. My pets were always happy, annoyed, embarrassed, contented; my Cait Siths latterly an epitome of such. His expression was so blank it was hard not to project emotion upon it. But then, because he was so hard to read, I could have also imagined the predatory gleam, right?

Still, I went on. On a roll! As Cait would say, and quite unable to stop the momentum, "You come from Kalm?"

Now that got a definite reaction, though it was still a transient flicker. His voice bore no accent but had a timbre that I had recognised as part of the received pronunciation of the small Northern town, the colouration of his hair and eyes being a mere few shades lighter than my own. My parents still lived North-East of Kalm back then.

"Your name?"

The tables had switched again, but this time it had less of the bite; not a blunt statement meant to provoke reaction, merely a question.

"Reeve Tuesti." I had already been rude. Besides, if he really was a Turk (a question I duly noted he had yet to answer) I had been most definitely remiss in terms of politeness, even though hierarchical whereabouts (considering genuine leverage) of a Turk was - and to an extent still very much is - a grey area. I hurried out a quick, "Sir," and shoved back the concern that was threatening. What was done was done.

Hopefully I'd get to 'just live with it'. But, then, that was just those silly rumours…

He raised an eyebrow and I shivered lightly. This was of course due to a small breeze sweeping past the heated skin through the buttons of my old and now ruined blazer. Not at all because I was being looked at as if being assessed for a fitted coffin.

Not in the slightest.

"Reeve. You have a long night ahead of you. Go get cleaned up."

There was another brief chuckle coming from the other man, as I wondered if he could be implying something. I half expected to find the head of a behemoth in my locker upon my return. Or worse.

Feeling somewhat uncomfortable and just a tad dazed, I nodded on pilot. “…Huh. My apologies again for splashing you. Can I have your name so-”

“Standing here in soiled, old clothes will not make reactors two and four run any more efficiently.”

An eyebrow arched again as a frown married itself onto my own features. A thought erupting in mind with a shocking clarity. No. You have got to be joking.

The still-anonymous man brushed past me and started walking down the corridor, leaving me with more than a distinct impression that this entire encounter had been one of _intent._

Though exactly why eluded me.

* * *

Picking up the choco-wing and cup I mopped up any liquid that had not found its way onto my chest with a regular handkerchief amd shaking my head I continued in the direction I was going before. Reaching the engineer’s mess I gave a smile to my colleagues, most of whom were changing and finishing up for the day. I received some amused looks in return, not that I could really blame them. My blue jacket, already faded and getting a little ill-fitting was now splattered. My chest, that was bare underneath my jacket, remained distinctly pinkened. The white collar of my shirt was scrunched back alongside the rest of the material tucking itself into bumping creases at my sides. I looked a pretty sight, I’m sure.

Having just graduated I was still living upon the shoestring budget of a student, my first pay check having not yet cleared. But I’d be damned if I was going to ask my parents to contribute to a new suit, being from a family more practically sufficient as opposed to fiscally rich. I had only got into Junon on the strength of my earlier grades and the suit I had had for more than three years. Sighing, I racked my brains as to what my mother would do to rid cloth of coffee staining as I keyed in the code to the boss’ office.

“Tuesti there you are… Sleipnir’s load! You look like shit! Good thing you’ve had a delivery, which is over there," My superior officer pointed to the back of her office, “…This month’s budget is loaded onto the server under B-1983-F-Qtr4, shift rota for tonight is here on this very disc,” She waved a computer disc at me and barely took a breath, “Pressure has been fluctuating over at your number two and setting off those annoying alarms you got rigged up alright already. That’s probably why I got a migraine the size of Ifrit’s balls threatening, thanks very much. The male toilets are apparently blocked, not that that particularly bothers me, but hey, tough luck... However the coffee machine has broken in the staff room, which more than bothers me. Still I trust you see sense to fix it by the time I get back in in the morning. Now. I just have to go and swap overalls for a cocktail gown and hopefully, by some miracle, drink will have the opposite effect on this headache cos sure as hellfire I ain‘t doing tonight sober! So, if you excuse me, my office is yours to do what you will. That said, I‘ve run out of tissues -for genuine medical reasons before you ask- and don‘t want sticky patches.”

And with that, our typical run of the mill update over and done with, the Head of Urban Development left the office and left me wondering what exactly what she was meaning about a delivery.

A silence, aside from a comforting hum of equipment, descended. I slumped down into the chair at the computer terminal and ran fingers through my hair and tried not to think of the new Materia I had heard about called Drain and subsequently how I was feeling.

Or in fact about an older man that at the same time compelled and confused me, one who I still did not know anything concrete about bar he was a conniving old dog with a random sense of picking out his playthings.

I set about the routine tasks first.

Ten minutes in I had moved to the back of the office and picked up a package marked “R. Tuesti, Engineer, Urban Development”. Curiosity getting the best of me I opened it up - only to find a brand new suit. Instead of the dark as a night blue that I had seen on the older man and the girl, this suit was coloured a subtle and rich moss green. Tugging the single breasted jacket up, a piece of paper fluttered to the floor:-

 _The measure of a Man?_

 _Neck - 17  
Chest - 40  
Waist - 32  
Inside Leg - 31_

Tailored to fit.

Picking up a pen and flipping the paper over I wrote:

 _With all due respect, please find the suit returned. My mother told me never to accept gifts from strangers, and I owe a lot to her words of wisdom._

 _I do not plan to be indebted to an anonymous benefactor for reasons I have yet to be made aware of._

 _Regards,  
Reeve Tuesti._

And folding the jacket back up into the package I clipped the note visibly on the outside and put it in the internal post out-tray.

* * *

I awoke to the sound of a mug being slammed down upon the desk in front of my forehead. “Get up, Tuesti.” Grunting I mulched over a dry mouth and wearily sat up, “Eh..?” My vision focussed on pulled back blonde hair and stern blue eyes, and my back cricked in protest. A parcel was shoved in front of me “You sure are popular, ain’t ya? Thanks for fixing the coffee machine. Now get off to the shower room. I won’t have you stinking up my office!”

Physically being shooed away by a woman practically my size I blearily grabbed the package and stumbled off to the showers. Leaning against my locker I noticed a note tagged as I had done before:

 _Mr. Tuesti,_

Have you ever thought of a career in politics?

-Verdot, Commander in Chief of the Turks.


End file.
